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“I want a hug!” the kid bellowed.
Damon slammed the door, planting his body against it like there was a bear after him as he breathed hard.
“I got too many fucking kids,” he breathed out, looking flushed with his hair a mess.
I bit back my smile as his sons banged against the door.
He winced. “Where are they?”
I looked to Rika, and Damon shot off the door, charging right for her.
Yanking a few books off the shelf, he pulled out their stash of cigarettes and opened up the pack.
“Rika, what the hell?” He glared down at her. “This was supposed to last a month.”
“I was under a lot of stress,” she retorted. “Besides, you smoked almost the entire last pack.”
I shook my head, watching Damon quickly put one in his mouth. They limited themselves to one pack a month, and since everyone was here more than anywhere else, and Damon didn’t trust himself with the responsibility, Rika got to keep the pack.
The door to the office flew open, and Fane Torrance, Damon’s third eldest, raced in.
“I want a hug from the hug machine!” the seven-year-old demanded.
Damon faced away from him, flicking his lighter desperately. “The hug machine needs a recharge,” he mumbled over the cigarette.
Rika swept past him and scooped up Fane, throwing him over her shoulder. “Come on,” she told the boy. “Let’s go find Auntie Banks for some tickle torture. Daddy needs a moment.”
She left, taking the giggling boy with her, and closed the door. Damon blew out a stream of smoke, finally exhaling, and came to the sofa, plopping down next to me. He let his head fall back against the sofa and took another drag, blowing it out.
“I really do love them,” he breathed out. “But I never have a moment alone. If I want my wife, I have to ambush her in the fucking shower.”
“Maybe you should stay away from her,” I pointed out. “She gets pregnant every time you breathe on her.”
He chuckled, and I heard commotion outside as his boys played. His oldest, Ivarsen, was only slightly younger than Madden. Gunnar was born next in Damon’s quest for a daughter. When that failed, he just kept having kids, getting himself two more sons—Fane and Dag—before Octavia finally arrived. Winter had gotten five blessed years of breathing room since.
“You got her fixed, right?” I asked, plucking the cigarette out of his hand and drawing a puff.
“Why?”
I chuckled. He bitched about all the kids in his bed and all the time he didn’t get Winter to himself, but I think he might actually be up for a couple more tries to give Octavia a sister.
He took the cigarette back and stood up, walking to the window and peering into the front yard.
I studied him, taking in the disheveled suit and hair. The attempt to look like he had his shit together, but I knew life was a loud house every day.
But he looked just as young as he did in high school.
The happiness of the kids and wife, and the home and love, was written all over his face.
“Why did you want a daughter so badly?” I asked him.
I kind of always figured it was because he wanted a Daddy’s girl, but he doesn’t fight her battles any more than he does the boys’.
And it’s clear that, while he loves all his kids, he and Octavia are two sides of the same coin. She was the only one who got his black eyes and black hair, which was rumored to skip generations.
“I don’t know,” he said, staring out the window. “Every time I thought of myself having my own family someday, there was always a little girl in the picture.”
He paused, smiling at whatever was going on outside.
